Arran McLoughlin

Fog

The first thing Terrell always noticed about waking up these days was just how dark it was. The thick, toxic smog that passed for air had an irritating habit of blocking most of the sun. He sat up and smacked his hand down on his alarm, or where his alarm would be. Old habits die hard. There wasn’t really anything to get up for at the end of civilization. He pulled himself forward onto his knees and began folding the ragged, filthy bedding into his backpack, pausing briefly to adjust his gasmask. Sleeping in it wasn’t getting any easier. He gathered the rest of his belongings together, a battered journal, worn down boots and the heart-shaped locket that was never far from him. He opened it and took a moment to remember why he was still going. He took a deep breath, snapped it shut around his neck and started walking.